


Miles to go

by mistress_shiny



Category: Leverage
Genre: Cold, M/M, Whomp Eliot, very broken beaten up eliot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:16:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistress_shiny/pseuds/mistress_shiny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The woods are lovely, dark and deep,<br/>But I have promises to keep,<br/>And miles to go before I sleep,<br/>- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening<br/>- Robert Frost</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miles to go

**Author's Note:**

> Without [](http://portraitofafool.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://portraitofafool.livejournal.com/) **portraitofafool**  this would not be what it is.

  
   
 **Title:** Miles to go  
 **Fandom:** Leverage  
 **Pairing:** Eliot/Nate  
 **Rating/Warnings(if any):** R for gore  & implied violence & a very broken Eliot  
 **Word Count:** 746  
 **Notes:** Without [](http://portraitofafool.livejournal.com/profile)[ **portraitofafool**](http://portraitofafool.livejournal.com/) this would not be what it is.  
Written for [](http://leverageland.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://leverageland.livejournal.com/) **leverageland**   's hush challenge where it received an honorable mention!  
(really show writers? eliot? did you miss an 'l' when adding it to imdb?)  
 **Summary:**  
 _The woods are lovely, dark and deep,_  
But I have promises to keep,  
And miles to go before I sleep,  
- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening  
\- Robert Frost

 

  
The pall of winter hangs heavy in the air, still and silent; almost like it is listening. In the hush comes the slush-crunch sound of labored movement. It’s followed by a slow, panting indrawn breath that is choked with pain. Overhead, the sky remains serene, the dark blue of night blooming across the sky like velveteen iris petals unfolding. With each unfurled petal comes a sprinkling of stars that glitter like broken glass.

The figure is sprawled, half buried in the snow. Blood follows his progress like a history; a slow cartography of strained movement with periods of inactivity marked by spreading stains of crimson. His hair is wet and it freezes against his skin as the night steals what warmth he had remaining.

One arm drags behind, useless, as he pulls himself though the snow. On his back dark stains spread in starbursts from half a dozen places as though they are trying to echo the sky above. His eyes are fierce, piercing blue and they spit fury and rage at the world as though they could burn the snow away and clear his way home.

The snow remains impassive; however, as he drags himself along like a dying dog until his fingers are bleeding from the ice burns tearing the skin away from their tips. He coughs and digs his fingers even deeper into the snow in defiance of the ache screaming in his digits and he drags himself another half a foot. The cough leaves his chin feeling suspiciously wet, but he only clenches his teeth and turns half a foot into a whole foot.

In the gloom a screech owl cries out and sends his laboring heart thudding in his chest. There is a rustle of wings and the groaning of a snow-laden branch as the owl pushes off from its perch. In the light of the rising moon peering bloated and orange over the horizon, Eliot watches the shadow of the owl’s wings paint the snow ink-blot black for a moment.

Eliot tilts his head back to look at the sky above him when snow starts to fall with its whispery, shh sound, so much like softly mocking voices. The world begins to look like it is filled with static, white noise coming down around him impeding visibility further and freezing him quicker. Snowflakes catch in his damp lashes and when he blinks, he can feel the ice scrape his cheeks as he drops his head back down and drags himself forward more. Lying down would feel so nice, just a moment to rest in the static-cold. The night is getting darker at the edges of his vision and in that darkness, there will be no stars, but he cannot stop.

Each movement is a promise kept, a feather landing on brass scales tipping the balance in his favor for a moment. He seizes the advantage and presses forward, but snow falls on the scale taking the advantage back and he falters. Each snowflake landing on his skin feels like a weight pulling him down. His eyes close and in the darkness of his mind he curls into a ball to keep the biting taunts of the snow at bay.

Outside his mind the snow is winning as he makes one last, jerking lurch forward on his belly then is still. He was close to keeping his promise, but he falls short of the mark, just his head poking from between the trunks of two spruces, hand reaching out like he’s about to claw himself forward again. He’s still though, so still, just like the winter night that holds its frozen breath around him.

*************

Warm hands pull him roughly from the darkness, scorching his skin as they attempt to brush away frozen blood and snow. His lips have frozen together with blood and make a sound like tape ripping off of paint when he looses a helpless sound at the feel of those too-hot hands on his cold flesh.

There is no time for words, just hurried movement as he is bundled into strong arms. Panicked breath warms his face and Eliot forces his eyes open. His world has narrowed down to this; dark hair curling around steel blue eyes that widen in relief. Soft lips press against his forehead and he is enveloped in familiar warmth. More hands reach for him, but Eliot clings to the man holding him.

He doesn’t need anything else. He kept his promise after all.


End file.
